


Fourteen Days

by Ranowa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: COVID-19, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Prompt Fill, Sherlock Being Sherlock, shelter in place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23489656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranowa/pseuds/Ranowa
Summary: Sherlock does not do well, cooped up at home.John does even worse than Sherlock.Sherlock, therefore, devises a plan for immediate action.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 257
Collections: 221B-Consolation Fest 2020, Isolated Johnlock Collection





	Fourteen Days

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous tumblr prompt that I'm scooping up for the taking, for the Sherlock con that was originally this weekend until the entire world got canceled: "Friends to lovers Johnlock in quarantine. 14 days. Starts with casual touches cuz close quarters. Progresses to slightly more intimate touching: foot rubs, hair stroking. Turns out John goes stir crazy first. Sherlock deduces he needs an outlet, offers up no strings kissing and the like. Massive miscommunication and pining. Happy ending of course"
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> yeah so I wrote this in April and made a few 'jokes' in it about the quarantine lasting for months more and you know I really didn't realize I was going to be sent back into lockdown in JULY because THANKS REPUBLICAN GOVERNORS WHO WON'T WEAR A FUCKING MASK so yeah /this aged realllllllll well/ *screams into pillow, cries, rolls onto the floor* wear your goddamn masks, people

**Day One**

John hugged his laptop bag to his stomach, toed his shoes off with abandon, one after the other. And then, for the first time in a week straight, he flopped all the way down onto his back, and  _ relaxed. _

He already knew it was going to be short-lived as all hell, but at the moment?

Soft pillow. Soft sofa. Soft blanket. Soft, warm, comfortable,  _ yes. _

He was never going to move again.

Mrs. Hudson came bustling up the stairs in just under a minute; anxious, these days, the way so many people were. "Yoohoo! Good to see you here, John- we thought you were going to be down at the surgery still! Oh, dear, you look like you could use a cuppa..."

"That'd be lovely, Mrs. H, thank you." John pressed his fingers to his eyes, squeezed shut and dry. "Change of plans, actually. Apparently there was a vote for who gets to run Skype duty instead of seeing patients in person, and the one who lives with a chainsmoker and an elderly woman won." 

John suspected Mycroft's invisible hand in that, just a little. If the politician was even up to meddling in his life, these days, while putting out fires left, right, and center. But the decision just made too much sense for him to be angry about it. If John caught the virus from any one of a hundred patients and passed it along, then Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson would wind up with much worse than just a cough.

Thus, enter temporary live-in Dr. Watson.

He didn't like it.

He didn't like knowing the surgery was, starting tomorrow, going to be running on a skeleton crew while the rest staffed at the hospital proper, while he sat at home on his laptop. He didn't like that just about everyone he knew was still at work, while he, again, was going to be just sitting at home on his laptop. Not when he had the skills to be out there, too. Not when he could  _ help. _

But they were all having to make sacrifices now, and if John's was to remove himself as a possible vector to keep Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson safe, then that was that.

Speaking of a certain genius consulting chainsmoker...

"John?"

Fifteen minutes since he'd gotten home. John rolled his eyes again, glancing over to find Sherlock had finally pried himself up from his microscope and was now staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

"I thought you were going to be home late on Tuesday?"

"Are you serious? That was last week, Sherlock. It's  _ Wednesday." _

Sherlock blinked. "Is it?"

_ "Yes,  _ were you- did you not hear anything Mrs. Hudson and I just talked about?"

"Please, John." Sherlock ducked back down to his microscope, all that was in view now a messy head of curls. "You know I never listen to what you two talk about. Meaningless small talk; I can't possibly be expected to take up valuable storage space with any such trivia."

John shut his eyes again, and buried his groan back into another sip of tea.

This was going to be a very long two weeks.

**Day Two**

After twelve hours straight of Skype appointments, John no longer felt all that guilty about not being able to help out in person.

For the second day in a row, there was nothing for it but to trudge into the sitting room, and flop onto the sofa. 

Maybe if he just closed his eyes now, closed his eyes and switched his brain straight off, he'd wake up sometime in August and all of this would be over.

"Pass me my lab notebook?"

Oh, come on.

...

"Pass me my lab notebook?"

...

"Pass me my-"

"Sherlock, have you been asking for an empty room to pass you your lab notebook ever since lunch?"

_ Lunch.  _ Another thing he'd sorely missed, today. God, he hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind feeding them tonight... or every night in the foreseeable future...

Once again, one curly head popped up from behind the microscope, blinking at him with big doe-eyes and the same pajamas as the day before. "Oh, John, you're back." He ducked back down, tutting at something under his breath. "Pass me my lab notebook."

"That's a definite no, Sherlock."

Had Sherlock even moved since yesterday? Certainly didn't look as if he'd slept, but also, somehow, came out of it looking absolutely no worse for wear.  _ Somehow.  _ A sleepless night and day bent severely over an experiment with nothing to sustain himself off of but the occasional cup of tea, and  _ somehow  _ he was bright and chipper as the non-existent London sun. Meanwhile John was about to give in after twelve hours of giving advice over his laptop.

He wondered if Sherlock even remembered they were in quarantine, or if he'd just off and deleted that, too.

"Why don't you just work down here?"

John started, still rubbing his eyes. "Sorry?"

"Work down here tomorrow," Sherlock repeated airily. He was still focused on his microscope, but now waving a long hand about, gesturing at John and the mess of the room and his experiment and the world at large. "There's more space here. You're always antsy, whenever you're cooped up. It's annoying."

"It's annoying for  _ you?" _

"Oh, you know what I mean."

"No, I think that's exactly what you mean; it's annoying for  _ you."  _ More to the point, though, Sherlock actually  _ was  _ right, damn him. He'd much prefer to work down here. Room for pacing and stretching; tea and some measure of food, on hand- even the company would be nice. Whatever sort of company a cooped up, experimenting Sherlock ever was.

John hugged the pillow to his stomach, chewing on the words. He was definitely going to regret this. "You do realise that I'm not going to be available as your fetcher of all things that you are too lazy to get? That I'm going to be working, not running three foot errands for you?"

"You've been terrible at errands this week anyway, John; I'll likely not notice the difference."

John gaped at him. Or he tried to, but the energy to be disbelieving at Sherlock’s antics was located somewhere around Jupiter, today, and the exhaustion settled into his chest and tugged him sideways and that was that. Not today. He did not have it in him today. All that mattered was making his new home on the blessed warmth of this couch. 

Of course, silly him; he'd forgotten the priority of the world! Enabler of Sherlock Holmes' astounding, earth-shattering laziness: level one. Pandemic: level two.

If they got out of these two weeks without John ever entertaining the fantasy of strangling the world's mouthiest, rudest, most brilliant, fluffy-haired genius, then it was going to be a miracle.

**Day Three**

John only gave it thirty minutes, before he gave up the illusion of privacy.

He shouldn't have been conducting patient interviews and virtual exams with his flatmate puttering about five feet away- pandemic or not, they still had privacy laws- but with all the pacing about that Sherlock did, the only safe spot ended up being crammed into a corner of Sherlock's desk of random assorted junk. Even then, John still had to smack away a wandering hand twice;  _ whatever you're looking for, Sherlock, it's not here! _

Half an hour of that, and it had become very clear: eventually, something was just going to have to give. Either Sherlock could catch a glimpse or two of his laptop screen, and the board was just going to have to deal with it, or John was going to lose his mind.

It wouldn't have been the first time that he'd exposed poor, innocent strangers to the menace that was a wandering Sherlock on Skype.

At least he was dressed, this time.

John stood up when he had to, stretching, fidgeting; anything to deal with the build up of nervous energy. He tried to remember to take his laptop into the kitchen every few hours, just to grab something to keep himself going; he also tried to keep his screen turned away from Sherlock. Whatever experiment he was doing involved an amputated hand, a bunsen burner, and a pipette of acid. Those were questions he did  _ not  _ need, thank you very much.

And that, then, was how it started.

With Sherlock on the move, as ever, and John given up keeping out of the way- the touching started. Sherlock had no concept of personal boundaries whatsoever, and if John was in the way, he simply nudged past him. Sometimes even bodily took him by the shoulders and moved him aside. The kitchen was even worse, with Sherlock stock still over his experiment and John carrying his bulky laptop, forced to just squeeze around him since the lanky git clearly wasn't going to move.

With anybody else, it would’ve been awkward. 

John wasn’t sure if Sherlock even noticed. 

"All right, Mrs. Wilson, that's good. You don't need to take your daughter in right now, but if-"

Sherlock clattered down a mug of tea right at his elbow, turned his back in a swirl of dressing gown, and walked away.

John stared at it.

Sherlock returned to the kitchen, sitting back down at his lab stool and ducking right back into his experiment, and didn't blink once.

Well. Okay, then.

"...Dr. Watson?"

"I-" He shook himself, swallowing. "Sorry, I'm sorry." John warmed both hands around the tea, taking a precautionary sip. No sugar, and no hint of anything else, either. Just... tea. "Right, what was I saying..."

**Day Four**

Sherlock spent three hours with Mrs. Hudson's Rubik's Cube-  _ "it'll help clear your head, dear, give you something to do"-  _ before dismantling it brick by brick, and settling each one into a beaker of a base that was definitely too caustic to be in the flat.

Then, he knotted his scarf, and stomped right by John to the door in a dramatic huff.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

The detective didn't answer- maybe hadn't even listened- so John tried again, now extremely thankful this strop had been timed for a five minute break between patients. "Sherlock, the city's in lockdown; you can't leave unless-"

"I  _ know,  _ John. I'm going to Tesco's." He snarled something into his scarf, still glaring daggers across the room. "For a vat of acid, instead. Big enough to drown every Rubik's Cube in the world. Sodium hydroxide is not enough." He paused for a moment, wrestling with his gloves, instead; as if it wasn't already hot enough. "And for cigarettes."

"Are you sure this is the time to be buying cigarettes, Sherlock? You've been doing really well-"

_ "Yes,"  _ Sherlock snapped, and was out the door without another word.

Annoyance throbbed in John's neck.

It wasn't actually fair, to be annoyed about it. Sherlock was perfectly in his rights to go grocery shopping. After all the years where John had begged him to so much as pick up milk, he could hardly get irritated with him for doing so now. Certainly better Sherlock than Mrs. Hudson. He couldn't even get mad at him for buying cigarettes. Not  _ really. _

Sherlock Holmes did not do well caged up, and the flash in his eyes as he'd whirled out the door- John knew that look. That look that Mycroft had dubbed  _ danger nights,  _ and had Mrs. Hudson staying downstairs until morning, and had John with one eye on Sherlock’s door and his heart thudding in his throat.

If he didn't get the nicotine, then soon, he might well be dousing more things into beakers of chemicals that absolutely should not be lying around the flat.

But, seriously.

John  _ was _ just a little bit ticked off, too.

Of all the times in the world for His Highness to decide that a stop by Tesco's wasn't beneath him after all, it really  _ would  _ have to be when that grocery store run had been the only time John had been going to be able to get out of the flat for an entire week.

Two patients and forty-five minutes later, Sherlock stormed back into the flat with bags over both his arms, scowling to himself and muttering something about milk-hoarding cigarette-stealing mouth-breathers. John thought better of asking him if he'd gotten any milk.

**Day Five**

John's leg started to hurt on his third patient of the day.

He made a home on the sofa after the fifth, because the last thing he'd  _ ever  _ needed was Sherlock deducing that.

* * *

Eight patients in, just as John was sending Mr. Hughes off with an order to get himself to the chemist, Sherlock walked straight for the sofa, and stopped right there in front of John.

Okay, then.

"...and that's about it, Mr. Hughes. Do you have any questions? All right, you take care, now- no, it's no trouble at all..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and loomed over him as an imposing and ridiculous tree.

John popped one of his earbuds out. "What?"

"Budge over."

_ "What?" _

"Budge over," Sherlock repeated.

"Uh- yeah. I... heard you, but-"

"Oh, for god's sake, John," he said, and quite literally budged him over.

John gave an indignant squawk, grappling for his laptop and the pillow and the arm of the sofa, but Sherlock only situated him firmly down at one end before settling himself down on the other. He stretched out, all pointy bone and lean muscle, head over one end of the sofa and feet over the other-  _ John's  _ end- and immediately thereafter went as slack as a sloth.

"Sherlock!"

"I'm taking a nap," Sherlock said waspishly, as if that were perfectly obvious and this was a perfectly normal thing to do and John was the odd one to dare to be stuttering over it. "Haven't slept in two days. You don't mind, do you?"

_ "Mind-"  _ John spluttered, squirming. Sherlock's long legs were completely in the way, wedging John and his laptop completely out of space; he almost expected to get kicked in the head any second now. "You have a perfectly good bed, just over there! Sherlock, I'm  _ working!" _

The detective huffed, blowing up at a messy tuft of curls. "I don't mind."

_ "I  _ mind! You can't just lie on top of me, Sherlock, my patients will see you-"

"Mmm. Right, then." He started to curl up a little more, pulling his arms around his stomach and rolling his head to the side. "Sorry, but it really has been two days since I've slept; can we carry on with this later, please? Really quite tired now, John- I think I'll be going to sleep, now-"

_ "Sherlock-" _

But the detective's eyes slid straight shut, and at the same time, the green light brightened on John's laptop to indicate an incoming call.

Just when he'd thought telecommunicating couldn't get even more unbearable.

With a grim sigh, John wormed himself around Sherlock's legs one final time, situating his laptop as best he could. And, for some reason, not simply just kicking the detective off the couch. 

Sending one last glare at Sherlock's already slack face, he answered the call.

**Day Six**

It happened again the next day. This time, with one curly head propped up on his thigh while all six-foot-two of consulting detective and a blanket balled up next to him under a blanket, and with no explanation whatsoever.

The only reason John didn't kick him off was that he had now discovered just how nice a sleeping Sherlock could be.

You know. Physically. It always feels nice to have someone be that close to you, yeah? Human, animal instinct; whatever. Like a weighted blanket for anxiety; something heavy and warm, pressed in around him. And John did feel a little bit better since yesterday, too? Like a-

John blinked.

Like a weighted blanket for anxiety.

_ Oh. _

**Day Seven**

"Dr. Watson? If you don't mind me asking- what kind of cat do you have?"

John blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"He sounds like a real sweetheart," his patient went on, unperturbed. She nodded down towards John's lap with a twinkle in her eye, like she might want to reach straight through the screen and pet. "He's been purring so loudly I could hear him this whole time!"

John fought so hard to swallow a snort, he just about choked.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Ms. Jones," he said, and hung up.

Then, he grinned.

"You hear that, Sherlock?" he asked quietly, peering down at him. "You're a _ real sweetheart. _ Does that mean you'll keep making my tea, even when all of this is over?"

Sherlock snuffled into the blanket, holding perfectly still. John slid an idle thumb through his hair, inch by careful inch, and it was just  _ delightful  _ that the man didn’t even stir in answer.

In all the years that they'd known each other, Sherlock had done many much stranger things, than manage an out-cold nap with a hot laptop humming two inches from his ear, an uncomfortable leg for a pillow, and John talking nonstop and not all that quietly, just above him.

And John had done many much more ridiculous things, than stroke a makeshift weighted blanket.

John smiled fondly, and went back to work.

**Day Eight**

Day eight.

Blessed, wonderful, amazing day eight.

Day eight.

Otherwise known as _John's day off._

Half day off. He still had patients scheduled for this afternoon.

But it was still a few hours off, at the very least, and he'd never been quite so happy for the balm in his life.

Not that there still weren't boatloads of patients needing to be seen- there were- but if he didn't take at least a few hours to himself to take a damn break, he was going to start making mistakes. He knew from texting with Molly it was much the same at the hospitals; she'd spent the last day alternately sleeping and snacking in her office. And fending off Sherlock's texts, because _no,_ he was not getting any body parts for the foreseeable future.

But as sorely as he'd needed it-

It also only took him about one hour to hate it.

He sat on the sofa. Like he had been for about a week straight.

He sat on the sofa. He made tea.

He sat in his chair, because Sherlock's experiments had the kitchen about two stages of mold progression away from being outright condemned.

He tried cleaning, and discovered Sherlock, in all his nicotine withdrawal haze, had left nothing for him to clean.

He sat on the sofa. He tried digging up some missing essential item to wrangle up an excuse to make a Tesco's run, just to _go outside,_ and discovered Sherlock had left nothing for him to buy.

He sat on the sofa. He twiddled his thumbs.

He _sat on the sofa._

And his leg hurt.

Whatever Sherlock was doing in the kitchen, John knew better than to volunteer to help. He was bored, not suicidal. The detective was back hunched over his lab notebook, scribbling at something and muttering under his breath; by the messy state of his hair and three cups of coffee already consumed, he probably hadn't slept since his nap on John's shoulder yesterday.

When Sherlock screeched his stool back, John fully expected him to traipse back over to the couch, as per the new normal, and drape himself all back over it. And John.

Instead-

"John," Sherlock said. He narrowed his eyes down his nose at him, arms crossed and mouth flat. "Kiss me."

John choked on his tea.

What the fuck.

"...What exactly have you been smoking in there, Sherlock?"

The detective rolled his eyes with an extravagant huff. "You," he said, one long finger pointing downwards in an elegant jab. "You have been increasingly anxious the longer that this goes on: you are pacing twenty percent more than yesterday, and you've had to steady your hand five times in the past hour. Usually, there are many other avenues to try, but in our current circumstances, we only have available to us what is currently in the flat. Kissing, then." One by one, Sherlock began to tick the points off on his fingers, voice still so calm he might as well have been just listing off all the different kinds of tea.

"Kissing is easy to do. It's free, it's quick, and since if either of us ever had the virus, the other would've caught it by now, it's healthy. Since the prolonged physical contact of the past few days has helped, then this ought to, as well. It works off excess energy and is a sufficient distraction, which-" he sniffed, pale face twitching again, "-given my inability to obtain my own chemical stimulation, I... would appreciate as well."

John blinked again.

Okay. Rewind. Parse through it all; translate Sherlockian to English. First off, ignore that bit, about _inability to obtain my own chemical stimulation._ Ignoring that, for when John actually had it in him to hear cocaine or heroin in that, instead of just nicotine.

Ignoring all that, for the fact of the matter.

Which was: _kiss me._

John swallowed, his throat gone dry and numb.

Just how exactly was he meant to respond to this?

"Sherlock," he started slowly. "Are you offering to snog me because you think I need a distraction?"

"Yes," the detective sniffed, a haughty and dismissive little huff. "Obviously."

Right, then. Okay. Okay.

John squinted up at Sherlock. The look on his face was still indifferent and calm, hair all frizzy and pale face smudged with black and blue chemical residue under one eye. He was still dressed for labwork, too; protective eyewear, industrial apron, two elbow-length gloves- and definitely not the sexy kind.

It was, quite possibly, the _least_ sexiest proposition John had ever received.

This time last week, the answer wouldn't have only been no- John's instant and only explanation would've been that this was a trick or an experiment. Some weird test of Sherlock's that had an ulterior motive that desperately needed to be dissected, and then the genius himself sat down and explained to that _no,_ this was _not_ an appropriate thing to _experiment_ about.

John jittered his hand in his lap, considering, and kept on staring at his determinedly unsexy flatmate.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and... times had pretty much never been more desperate.

"This is just for a distraction," he pressed, holding up a finger. "Just for now. From the- situation. No... strings attached, or anything. I'm not g-"

"For god's sake, if you're going to be like this about it-"

"Get over here," John ordered, and Sherlock clapped his mouth shut with wicked eyes and a flash of teeth.

**Day Nine**

Sherlock, despite all assumptions to the contrary-

Was actually a good kisser.

He was demanding and possessive, his large hands curling over John's face very much like a toddler going _mine._ He was warm and his mouth was quick and his soft hair just right for catching his fingers in it, god, his hair was _incredible,_ and the only reprimand he got when he accidentally tugged too hard on a curl was a tug at his own hair in return.

He was single-minded in his intensity the way only Sherlock Holmes could be. Kissing and sucking and breathing on command, as if there was nothing else in the room that mattered, as if John Watson's mouth had become the only thing of note left in the entire universe. He'd kiss him until he was breathless, he'd kiss him just passing by in the kitchen, he kissed and kissed and _kissed._

John had never been kissed so much in his life.

And- god help him- it helped.

It helped the way Sherlock napping on him had, the way the casual brushing by his shoulder or a head provided to stroke had actually _made a difference._ It gave his hands something to do, it gave his mind something to focus all of itself to, something that wasn't actually important. It was okay to mess up. It was okay if their noses bumped together, if he broke away in the middle because he'd forgotten to send an email, if once they just about head-butted. He could make a mistake, and the world didn't end.

All that he got was a low, throaty chuckle, vibrating from Sherlock's lips to his mouth, and the shudder of the thin shoulders under his arm.

"Your heart rate is slower than yesterday," Sherlock informed him, casual as could be, breathing in from just inches away. His bright eyes peered unblinkingly into his, dilated and big and so very blue. "Should I be insulted?"

"Yesterday, I was mainlining coffee. Which you already knew, so quit fishing for compliments, you show-off."

Sherlock grinned breathlessly back- the smug little _shit-_ and it took John just about everything he had not to kiss him again.

**Day Ten**

John Three-Continents Watson was in his thirties, decidedly not gay, and much too old to be having a sexuality crisis.

Sherlock Sex-Doesn't-Alarm-Me Holmes, incidentally, just happened to have delicious lips, legs to die for, and a _very_ skilled tongue.

**Day Eleven**

Oh fuck.

John Heterosexual Watson thought his Definitely a Man flatmate had legs to die for.

His Definitely a Man flatmate, who- despite dedicating his entire existence to being as much of a menace as was humanly possible, had actually been trying to be... _nice._ His probably asexual or John didn't even know, but he'd never once seen him show any interest at all in anything remotely sexual flatmate. The universe was _unfair,_ giving _that body_ to someone not even interested in using it, _fuck,_ but unfair universe or not, it _really_ wasn't fair for John to look at Sherlock, who was just being nice, who was only kissing him at all because he surely trusted John not to keep it going too far, and suddenly ask for more.

The worst part of it was, John was pretty sure he could _ask_ for more, and Sherlock would just... give it. Whether he was even remotely interested in it or not. He could just casually, lightly suggest _what if we took it a step further? You still need a distraction, right?_ and Sherlock would almost definitely look at him with those eyes and agree, no matter what he said.

It wasn't a bit not good. It went way beyond that. This had been such a terrible idea; he'd known it from the eternity otherwise known as three days ago, when Sherlock had propositioned him and he hadn't said no. Stupid idea; _horrible_ idea, that he should've known better than to say yes to. They had to stop this.

As soon as Sherlock wasn't pressed into him with one large hand on his face and the other in his hair, because _Jesus Christ_ that man was good with his tongue.

**Day Twelve**

Sherlock beat him to it.

"John," Sherlock said, over morning coffee, Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, and an experiment that looked just a little bit less poisonous than the day before. "I have a proposed amendment to make to our agreement."

John swallowed the rock making current residence in his throat. That didn't help.

Neither did staring hard down at his laptop to avoid Sherlock's ridiculously kissable face.

"While so far it has been sufficiently satisfactory, it's appearing that this situation is not going to be resolved any time soon, to thank the astounding competency of our government." Sherlock paused, hands folded under his chin. "Don't tell anyone, but Mycroft thinks this might last for another several months."

_"Months?"_

"Mmm, yes." He licked his lips in silence, for once in his life _not_ decrying his brother's very existence. "And since I would prefer it if you or I _didn't_ lose or minds, as I am actually rather fond of you, John, then- I might have another suggestion, for an activity."

"An _activity,"_ John repeated, faint.

Once again: Sherlock looked like a magazine cover, and had a voice like a sex phone operator, and... actually _spoke_ like a textbook. His driest, densest, most sinfully _boring_ textbook.

_Well... I suppose no one's perfect._

Sherlock nodded again, still absorbed in his morning coffee. "Yes. This one, something you could even do during a patient interview... if you were so inclined."

Silence.

Brain: meet brick wall.

Heart: oh, just about explode.

Just- casual as could be. Still sipping coffee over a scone and simmering solution. Hair drying and face still faintly flushed from his shower, god _damn him._

No. He wasn't offering- _that._ Surely not. He was leaping to conclusions because it was what _he_ wanted, which really went more to the point that John needed to call this off _now,_ before it went too far for him to take back. Because Sherlock wouldn't ever- Sherlock wasn't-

"John?"

John swallowed again, his throat suddenly dry. "Just to clarify," he said. "Are you asking to give me a blowjob, or a foot massage?"

Sherlock- _damn him-_ did not miss even a single, solitary beat. He grinned back at John, that clever, dangerous grin, another flash of white teeth and bright eyes, and made a sound with his mouth on his next swallow of coffee that was downright obscene. "The former. But... if you would also prefer the latter-"

"No. No no. No. I- okay, okay. No. I-"

"No foot massage?"

 _"No!_ I mean- no, _this._ No more of this. I'm sorry, it's been nice, but no."

Sherlock stopped on a dime, and just like that, his expression fell. It was slight and restrained, of course, immediately reigned back in to neutral, but John still caught it. He felt like he'd just kicked a puppy.

The detective gave a loud clearing of his throat. "I see." He coughed and fiddled with his thumbs, turning the beaker before him around in a neat, precise circle. Something murky grey and vicious sloshed. "Then, we can certainly keep to our previous arrange-"

"No. That's what I meant, we shouldn't- no more snogging, either. Thanks for it, it's been, um- great-" He coughed, feeling stiltedly formal and awkward and just a mess all around. Yeah, this was just going _swell._ "But. No more. Sorry." Sherlock was still staring at him, all striking eyes that were wide and surprised, and John just kept opening his mouth to insert his foot. "I'm not gay."

Sherlock stiffened, and his eyes turned to ice.

"Oh," he said. "I see."

Shit. What had he just done? _Why_ had he said that? "That's not-" he tried again, but _why_ was anyone's guess; John probably should just never speak again, because he was really, really bad at it. "I don't think you're hearing-"

"Yes, John; you don't _think_. As ever." He snatched up a graduated cylinder in one hand, his protective goggles in the other, eyes only for his experiment to the point that John might as well have just ceased to exist. "It's not your area, obviously; we've been over this."

"Sherlock-"

 _"Working,_ John," Sherlock snapped, and his solution of grey muck darkened to mud-brown.

**Day Thirteen**

The next morning, John ate breakfast by himself.

Sherlock's sulk behind his closed door was entirely wordless and tantrum-less- no thumping or slams of objects or crashes of fragile objects, just to annoy John. But it was nevertheless so _loud_ John could just about see the black storm cloud spreading from under the door.

He supposed he deserved it, this time.

"I guess I've got the day to myself, then," he muttered at Sherlock's closed door, and settled himself down in the kitchen.

* * *

It was, by far, the worst day John had spent at home yet.

**Day Fourteen**

John's peace offering was the best cup of tea made in the history of cups of tea, and- this was the real kicker, here- the last pack of cigarettes their local Tesco's had had.

He suspected the tea was a waste, or at least, all the effort he'd put into it. Sherlock was only picky about his tea when he wanted to be picky, which meant he didn't actually _care,_ he just cared about being particular and prickly and _annoying_. But the cigarettes were a surefire win, as unhappy as he'd been to buy them, and all it had taken was a gentle knocking at his flatmate's shut door and the promise of nicotine to earn himself one bleary-eyed, suspicious detective.

"You got cigarettes," he said, to the crack in his door. Back in pajamas and his second-favorite dressing gown, and his hair looking as if he'd spent the past day pouting in bed.

"Y-"

Sherlock snatched the box from his outstretched hand and hugged it back to his chest a if it were as precious as gold. "About time someone did."

That said, he whirled past in a swirl of dressing gown, and slid up the cup of tea on his way out.

The knot in John's chest loosened. Progress- however small or surly that it was- was still progress.

He followed back to watch Sherlock settling back down at the kitchen table, already futzing with his cigarette box with one hand, turning around a beaker with the other. By the look on his face, he'd be quite content to just sit there for the entire day- if John wanted to let it lie with nothing more than the peace offering of nicotine, then he'd be able to. Sherlock had no intention of forcing a conversation about what had happened, in proper British, male, emotionally constipated fashion- and really, John wanted nothing more than to let him. God knew it'd be easier than the awkward minefield that was to come.

"Sherlock?"

Another swish of his beaker. Sherlock beamed at it, his eyes bright and alive, and completely oblivious of John.

Right, then.

"Sherlock," he said again. "I just wanted to... say thanks. For this past w-"

"Don't be sentimental, John."

"...defect found in the losing side," John said, his heart sinking in his chest. "Right."

"Quite right."

Sherlock's answering smile was blinding, and it didn't make John feel any better at all.

No. He couldn't let it stand like this. Awkward or not, whether it'd make sense to Sherlock or just be derided as useless sentiment, John had to have this be done.

"It was nice," he insisted, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Really. Thank you. And it's nothing that _you_ did wrong, really." He didn't want the next blue moon that came along with hell frozen over for Sherlock to want to do something _nice_ for him, again, and have the detective just remember back to this and determine that it wasn't worth the effort. "You, um- we agreed no strings attached. Is the thing."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes back at him, and said nothing.

"And it was-" John coughed, his stomach fluttering. "I think it was- going to get complicated." Sherlock was still staring at him, utterly impassive and wordless, and it was so suffocatingly awkward that John was about to wilt on the spot and he just had to say something to break the silence. "Normal flatmates don't really get on snogging each other, you know, Sherlock!"

Sherlock watched him quietly for several moments still, his head tilted. It felt a bit like being watched by his parents, almost; Sherlock just waiting him out in patronizing silence, utterly unbothered and unaffected by it all.

"Quite right, then," he said again, when John did not, and returned to his experiment.

* * *

John had been settled back down on the sofa, now distinctly Sherlock-less, and back to interviewing patients for another two and a half hours, before Sherlock's piercing-eyed attention shifted back to him.

Not _again,_ god. Because the last time Sherlock had turned that look on him, it had ended so well?

"John," he said. (Again not waiting for him to finish his latest interview, and leaving John scrambling to dispatch his latest runny-nose and sore throat patient back to his kitchen for tea with honey).

"Listen, Sherl-"

"You proposed that we should end our previous arrangement, because you were wary of- strings becoming attached," he said, standing straight-backed and perfectly still, his eyes narrowed down at him. "Not because you were insulted."

John started. Was _that_ what Sherlock had thought? "No!" He rewound the words in his head, then the events of the previous two days, and understanding slammed into his gut. "Of course not! Seriously, you didn't do anything wrong, Sherlock-"

"Yes, yes. Obviously." Sherlock's mouth twitched in something undefinable, and for a moment, he was unreadable yet again. "What if I would prefer there to be strings?"

Another beat passed in shocked silence.

Okay. So.

First, Sherlock offers to snog him. A no-strings-attached, friends-with-benefits snogging.

Well, actually, no, _first,_ Sherlock had just draped himself all over John without asking him and cuddled up against him several inches away from his camera without a care in the world, but- then, yes. After that. Snogging.

 _Then_ he had offered a friends-with-benefits blowjob.

All of those could be easily explained by Sherlock lacking a single scrap of personal space, any gauge or care for how weird this would all be between Normal Friends, and being driven mad with cabin fever himself.

And... now he was offering him... _not_ friends with benefits.

_Strings._

"Honestly, John," Sherlock went on, grinning again. "I know you've an average mind, but I didn't think you'd need this to be spelled out to you when I just offered oral sex for no other reason than that _I like you."_

John's mind sputtered to a halt.

Sherlock Holmes was asking him out.

 _That's_ what this was.

The detective paused a moment, his expression still settled in that slight, knowing smile. "Of course, if you would prefer to _not-"_

"Get over here," John said, for the second time in two weeks, and Sherlock's answering grin was very little sort of predatory.

* * *

For the second time, John ended up being asked about his lovely, mostly off-screen cat, all that was visible of which being his brown, fluffy head, taking a dead-to-the-world nap on his leg, and arcing with pleasure every time John stroked his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> (And thus ends Sherlock's two week long plan to get himself a date~)
> 
> Those of you who know me know that all of this is so far out of my comfort zones, but I gave it the good ole college try, because I wanted to contribute! Fluff, friends to lovers, someone /not/ being hurt and thus hugged within an inch of their lives... what is the world coming to? :'D
> 
> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! Stay healthy! <3
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


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